


Maybe in Another Life

by netflixing



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, F/M, Oneshot, Soulmate AU, emotional af, lydia is an art major, rip your heart out kinda oneshot, stydia trash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-13
Updated: 2016-02-13
Packaged: 2018-05-20 00:41:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5986513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/netflixing/pseuds/netflixing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Art and love are the same thing: It’s the process of seeing yourself in things that are not you.”<br/>or<br/>Your soulmate was an artist of centuries ago, and currently, you’re an art student at university (or not but you’re taking an arts class). Then one day for a field trip, you go to a far-away museum and you just find yourself staring at what was your reflection, wearing different clothes to fit the timeline but it was definitely a split-image of you, on one of the framed displays.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe in Another Life

**Author's Note:**

> hi !  
> this is my first piece of work in the teen wolf tag so yea:)

“Ms. Martin? Are you joining us for the rest of the tour?” Her old teacher’s huffing voice interrupted her thoughts as the strawberry blonde poured over the souvenir guidebook on the Louvre.

Lydia Martin loved France, there was no doubt about it, from the high fashion, to the decadent food, but what she really loved was the art. She was, an art major after all, and where else to attend school then what city held the most famous works of art in history.

But art to her was more than just oil or acrylic on canvas.  
Art was a perfect plating of ratatouille , and a silk dressing gown. Art was the freckles on a boy’s pale skin and how the ocean drifted in his eyes.

“Coming!.” She responded, standing up and smoothing out her skirt, following the group through the many winding hallways and corridors, finally ending up in the Renaissance section, her favorite era. Everything from the painters, to the methods, to the detail, every single aspect of it was beautiful to her.

Suddenly, and all at once the group of students began to whisper loudly and she felt all eyes on her. Her breath hitched in her throat and she anxiously began checking over her skirt, blouse and face, double-checking everything, but she couldn’t find anything wrong.

“What? What is wrong? Is there something you would like to say?” She hissed in particular at a student only in the first year of the program. Something was unsettling in order for all of them to gawk at her like an animal in an zoo.

“I-It’s impossible, It must be just a coincidence” the university freshman babbled out.

“Spit it out maybe?” She said with pursed lips, tapping her nude stiletto on the hardwood floor of the museum section.

“It’s just Lydia, you look so much like the painting its astonishing..” The student trailed off, moving his eyes to his own guidebook.

“Let me see this..” She huffed, pushing past freshmen that would not move from their stationary position.

And then, she swore all her breath left her at that very moment

She saw it.

_Her painting._

It was undoubtedly her, when she was younger. Oh, how she loathed reincarnation from deep in her bones.

In the painting, she was on her parlor sofa, draped in silk, that had pain stakingly stitched vines and flowers along where it touched her breastbone. Her hair was let down and around it, and a circlet chain was placed upon her head. She looked, elegant, and immensely gorgeous, at least in the eyes of her painter.

Her heart had a sort of dull ache, with a longing deeper than anything she felt before.

She decided to sit on a bench, before her legs had a chance to give out from under her. With slow shaking breaths, she placed her hands in a steeple position at her mouth, steadying her breathing and closing her eyes.

Only one name came to mind, _Stiles._

She could still remember him as clear as day, he was known as the city flirt or charmer, but Lydia knew he only had eyes for her. He was a timeless romantic, traditional at its best.

_“My love let me paint you.”_

_“Oh but my beloved, there are many more women in the village better to paint than I.”_

_“I say, and I shall say again, you are the finest beauty I have ever lain eyes on. Let me cement our love. Centuries from now, young loves will be jealous of the emotion we achieved in a lifetime”_

Lydia missed the language, and regularly wrote journals full of it, desperate not to lose any of it if God forbid she were to reincarnate again. He wrote love poem to her, day after day, begging her to be his model. Until at least she agreed.

Stiles was the most interesting painting in her opinion, more passion than Da Vinci, more focus than Michelangelo, a better lover than Raphael.

It took a week to complete, with playful banter, and lots what the teens these days called ‘breaking in” a piece of furniture, her body left smeared with bits of acrylics that were left on his rough hands, but they were so delicate and smooth while they handled her. He would dip his hands in acrylics as the candles flickered and her skin as white as milk would be left with yellows down her middle, reds inbetween her shoulder blades...

It took extra scrubbing by her nursemaid to get it off, but she secretly liked it, it signified that he was hers and she was his, forever and always they had promised.

He revealed it at his home and it was one of the happiest days of her life, they were to marry in a month, an extravagant celebration with family. A custom dress and bridal was to be made for her, Emerald to complement her hair at Stiles’s request.

But tragedy was common, it was everywhere, from women losing babies, to children becoming infected with disease, she prayed every single night, until her knees ached while he was in bed. Praying to the church and to her God that she damn right _deserved_ a long life with this man, she had so much love for him in her heart that it overflowed. They _should_ have died when they were old and grey, they _should_ have had fat little babies, that Lydia would have stitched dressing gowns for, that they would have baptized in the church, and Lydia would have done _anything_ to have Stiles paint her one last time, or feel his embrace as he whispered sweet nothings in the still of the night.

Lydia knew Stiles was acting strange from the moment he came home from his attic studio that day, his eyes were glossed over and his skin was patchy, unlike his warm usual skin. She immediately called for the doctor, ignoring his requests that he was fine. She hadn’t cried when they told him he had contracted the lethal fever that was spreading from the Europeans, and he hadn’t bat an eye.

Instead, in the comfort of their own home, as they watched dusk set upon the sea, they cried out what they thought were all of their tears, Lydia wailing as she reached her hands upwards towards the sky. She knew then more then ever that her God was not so merciful as she was taught to believe.

His death came within a few weeks, sudden and unprepared to Lydia, with rasped prayer and affirming his undying love to her, and then with short ragged breaths, Stiles Stilinski the painter’s soul fled from his dead body. Those last weeks, she cherished, but loathed as well, seeing the life slowly drain from his face would forever plague her.

In their household for months after, she wailed. She cried until her tear ducts dried up, and all she did was scream and rip apart what was to be, wedding tapestries. Her grief swallowed her up whole, demanding her lady’s in waiting rid out the home of all of his paintings, some being sold to famous kings and soon to be lords. She never let her mid wander all these centuries of where they could have ended up

One dark night, when the moon was low, Lydia, in her most desperate vulnerable state, decided to take her own life by poisoning herself. She has concluded, that maybe that is why her soul reincarnated into the roaring body of a 21-year-old female, with surprisingly the same facial features and hair. Someone took mercy on her, and said “Here is a second chance, do what you wish with it, but make it count”.

“Ms. Martin? Ms. Martin are you all right?” The familiar wheezing voice of her art history professor as he hobbled his way to the bench she was sitting at.

“Hm what? O-oh I’m fine, “ She replied with a sniff

“Ms. Martin you were crying. Is everything ok?”

“O-Oh” she hadn’t stopped to notice the hot tears streaming down her cheeks, but now she brushed them away, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.

“We’re going to continue on to the other sectors now, you may stay and catch up later if you’d like”

“Thank you, I’ll be there in a few”

She watched him leave as the group of students left, and breathed out a huge sigh, that shook her body.

Her baby pink manicured fingers were pressed to her lips and then to the golden nameplate and with a barely noticeable whisper  
“I’ll see you in another world, my amour”.

_Princess L. (Acrylic on Canvas)  
Stilinski. S (Renaissance Period)_

__


End file.
